clash
by helium lost
Summary: Sylar needs the list, and it's of no importance to him the pain that Mohinder has to go through so that he can get it. [torture, slash]


**clash**  
. helium lost .

**Author's Notes: **Because "brain freeze" was too fluffy. No, not really. XD This is for the lovely sporkyadrasteia (Emeraldadrasteia here) whose birthday is today :D And because Mylar is omgotp!1!, well, I decided to write it.

Enjoy!

* * *

The room was dark and quiet, save for the _click-clack_ of the computer's keys. Mohinder sighed and closed his grit-filled eyes; he should probably be getting to bed soon. The clock read four AM, and he frowned. As usual, he hadn't intended to stay up so late. And, as usual, he still did. Remnants from life in the university, both as a student and a professor, he supposed. 

He yawned and stretched as he heard the familiar tones signaling that his computer was turning off. He'd sleep until late, he supposed, to make up for it. As he turned, intending to leave the room, he started and almost jumped when his cell phone began to ring, vibrating against the hard wood of the desk. He narrowed his eyes—who would be calling him at four AM, for God's sake? He strode back over to the table to look at the blinking display on his cell phone.

He froze and picked up the phone. The caller ID on the front read, "the bastard".

He set it back down and let it continue ringing. A few moments later, as he was lying in bed, his phone rang again. He counted the rings; he got up to seven before the phone fell silent.

And as the sun rose and filtered through his window, he cursed the damn bastard under his breath for yet another sleepless night.

* * *

Sylar frowned and ran a hand through his hair, his silent phone held in his other. He paced the room, then sat at the table, clasping his hands together as he stared blankly at the wall. His frustration was beginning to mount to a dangerous level, and he wasn't sure whether he could take it anymore. 

He needed the damn _list_.

He let out a growl and threw his phone across the room, letting it hit the wall and fall to the ground with a clatter. He entwined his fingers again, squeezing his hands together; he was itching to kill, and he _needed the list_. He buried his face in his hands as the images began to flash through his mind. Blood. The thin line stretching and growing across their foreheads; the blood, oozing and spilling; his hands prying and examining, fingers running across the grooves and ridges, searching, _searching_; the overwhelming, trembling excitement as his own blood began to flow and he touched this new blood to himself.

And the ensuing calm, the peace and clarity in his mind as he felt himself changing, morphing, _strengthening_.

And now… His fingers were pressing against each other, throbbing, itching for the feel, the touch of the smooth grayness and the tingling feeling that would writhe through him afterward. The urge, it had never come so strongly to him before—he pressed his fingers against his temples, pressed until he felt as if his head would explode.

He had this wealth of information, this store of power, right within his reach. Yet, every time he got close—every time he reached out, brushed against it—it would vanish, disappear.

He clenched his hands into fists and strode over to his phone. Luckily, he hadn't thrown it so hard as to break it (as he had done on a few instances); flipping back the cover, he dialed the number again and pressed the phone to his ear. One. Two. Three four; five six seven. Cut to the answering machine, that smooth, rolling, lightly accented voice that sent a shiver up his spine that he couldn't quite explain.

_"Hello, this is Dr. Mohinder Suresh. I'm not available at the moment, but if you'll please leave your name, number, and a brief message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. I apologize again for the inconvenience. Thank you."_

Beep. His own heartbeat had never sounded so loud to him; was this a consequence of that woman's power, or was it just…? He took in a breath, then closed his phone.

He shrugged on a jacket, slipped his phone into his pocket, and left the room, locking the door behind him. After a moment, he took out his phone again, contemplating its cover. With a flick of his thumb, he flipped back the cover again; he dialed nine of the ten digits before changing his mind and closing his phone again. A smirk spread slowly across his face.

Why spoil the surprise?

* * *

Mohinder rubbed his eyes, trying to get out that persistent, gritty feeling as he yawned. It was no use trying to get back to sleep; he'd already tried, and, the instant he felt the mattress beneath him, he was immediately wide awake again. It wasn't so much insomnia as it was the fact that his mind was racing at a million thoughts a minute, each one just vaguely tied to the one before it. He absently took the whistling tea pot off the stove and poured himself a cup. 

He could feel a pounding headache beginning at the back of his head as he blew the tea, cooling it. He was about to raise the cup to take a sip before he paused and turned slowly. He could swear he heard something behind him, a faint click, but he wasn't sure. He scanned the area behind him and, finding nothing out of place, shrugged it off and turned around again.

"Hello, Mohinder."

Mohinder narrowly avoided dropping his teacup, gripping the handle again just as it began to slip away from him.

"What are you doing here, Sylar?" he hissed, only to be met with a smirk.

"Reclaiming my sanity," he whispered, and Mohinder found himself silent, unable to say a word; his mind was racing at a billion thoughts a minute, one scenario—_run_—flashing by after another—_get behind him, somehow, and find a weapon, any weapon, and fight for your life_.

But once he had settled on a scenario that seemed feasible and tried to move, he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move except to breathe, blink, and look around. Sylar's right hand was slightly raised, and Mohinder knew at that instant that Sylar was pinning him to the spot. He breathed more quickly as he tried to move, but found himself unable to even lift a finger.

Then—a swift blow to the head, and his world went black.

* * *

When he came to, Mohinder found himself tied to a chair placed in the middle of the floor, a good distance away from anything else in the room. The back of his head was still throbbing; he looked up groggily to find Sylar in front of him, pacing the room slowly. 

"You and I are both after the same thing, you know," Sylar said softly. "Power, and the root of power." He kneeled down before Mohinder. "We could still work together. After all—I'm the only one who knows _precisely_ where the ability lies in the brain." The smirk spread wider across his face. "And maybe, given just a little time, I could figure out where the _switch_ is."

Mohinder shook his head. "No. That's just an excuse for you to kill more innocent people, and I can't have that happen."

"Really now," Sylar murmured, rising. "But admit it: You're interested." He locked his eyes on Mohinder's. "You want to know how I do it. You want to know how I know, how I take it." He tilted his head, his lips parting into a grin. "And right now, there's some part of you that's struggling, _wanting_ me to do it again, that morbid curiosity, those thoughts in your mind. And you think it's sick, what I do, but you're intrigued, and you'll never be able to let those thoughts go." Sylar leaned in and tilted Mohinder's chin up, eyes still fixed on his. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Mohinder jerked his head away from Sylar's hand. "No," he said simply, but Sylar replied with a laugh.

"I can hear it," he said, placing his hand on Mohinder's chest. Mohinder's eyes widened as he stiffened, his hands straining against the rope, unable to do anything. "Your heart. It's quickened. And your breathing, it's shallower." His grin became a smirk as he raised an eyebrow. "You're lying, aren't you?"

Mohinder narrowed his eyes. "No."

Sylar shook his head. "Lying again. You'll never learn." He stood, placing his hands in his pockets, before raising his eyebrows. "Your heartbeat's slowed down," he remarked.

"Hmph."

"One look at the list," Sylar said. "That's all I need. A minute of your time, and one look at that list; that's all I need." He laughed. "Thanks to that waitress, that is. And after that minute of your time, I'll never harass you again." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you _want_ me to, of course."

Mohinder frowned. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Sylar shrugged, looking down at Mohinder with a straight expression on his face. "You tell me. And your heartbeat's quickened again."

Mohinder bit his lip. "That means nothing."

Sylar kneeled down again and raised his index finger. Mohinder flinched, and Sylar grinned. "One minute, and it'll all be over. We'll never see each other again after that _one_ minute."

Mohinder laughed bitterly. "Do you think it's that easy?" he said. "I can't just let you be; I can't just let you kill innocent people while I sit back and watch. And you can't honestly believe that I'd do it, let you go on with what you do?" Another bitter laugh. "No matter what, our lives are entwined. And the only way to stop you from harassing me—or _me_ from harassing _you_—is to have one of us die." He grinned sardonically before continuing in a whisper. "And it won't be me, will it, because you need that list and I'm the only one who has it."

Sylar placed his hands on his thighs. "True." He paused. "But when I'm done with you, you'll wish you were dead." He raised a hand and touched Mohinder's face. "Such a pretty face; I'd hate to mar it, see it permanently twisted into an expression of agony." He paused. "But if that's what you want… I suppose I'll have to torture you. And—" He leaned forward and, speaking a whisper that sent chills up Mohinder's spine, "it's going to hurt." He laughed softly.

"You'll never get anything from me," Mohinder hissed.

Sylar smiled, his eyes filled with ice. "We'll see." He pushed up Mohinder's sleeve, then trailed his hand along his arm; Mohinder clenched his hand into a fist, gritting his teeth as he looked away. Sylar looked up.

"Oh no," he said softly. "You're not going to look away." He raised a finger and flicked it, jerking Mohinder's head, turning it to his arm. "Not if I can help it, at least."

Mohinder closed his eyes, but Sylar only laughed. With his index finger, Sylar trailed a line along Mohinder's arm; Mohinder gasped, and his eyes snapped open—only to be greeted with the sight of the flesh of his arm parting, opening; he couldn't take his eyes away from it. The pain hit him a second later, and he let out a yell. He tried to turn his head away, to not see the blood—_dear God, how could a body have so much blood?_—tried not to see the redness flow and drip down onto the floor, spreading and staining.

"It all stops when you agree to give me the list, you know," Sylar said calmly.

"Never," Mohinder breathed, his chest heaving.

"So be it," Sylar said softly, tracing another line along Mohinder's arm, crossing the first cut, letting his finger dip into the cut for a moment and touch the smoothly-cut edges. Another cut blossomed, the rivulets of blood mingling and joining the previous ones; the _pitter-patter_ sound mingled with Mohinder's yells and filled Sylar's ears as he smirked.

"This is only the beginning," Sylar murmured. "Cuts are nothing. You might as well give up now and preserve your sanity."

"It's my sanity for yours, then?" Mohinder said as he gulped down a breath of air and stilled himself. "Or shall it be yours for mine?"

"You decide," he said softly. With a wave of his hand, Sylar broke the mirror hanging behind him into a million tiny slivers. Another wave of his hand, and the shards were beside him, at his beck and call. He turned to look at them, picking out the thinnest shard and breaking them into even narrower shards; he continued until he had a cloud of needle-like shards of glass hovering beneath his hand.

"Now, I'll give you one last chance before the _real_ pain starts," Sylar said. He looked Mohinder in the eye and said, "Will you give me the list?"

Mohinder shook his head resolutely. "No."

"Don't say that I never gave you a chance," Sylar murmured before letting one of the needles fly and embed itself under Mohinder's nail. "Don't try to suppress the pain," Sylar said, leaning in until his face was inches away from Mohinder's. "Let it build up and it'll only unleash itself stronger when you can't take it anymore. Let it all out." He smirked. "Let me hear you _scream_."

But Mohinder's only response was to clench his teeth together more tightly, suppress everything more strongly.

"I'm not going to let you get to me."

Sylar sighed, waving aside Mohinder's words and letting another needle fly, followed by another and another in rapid succession. Every time the needle pierced him, Mohinder simply let out a whimper that he quickly quieted; he squeezed his eyes shut. But Sylar heard every sound—saw every movement—watched as a tear leaked out of the corner of Mohinder's eye.

With his free hand, Sylar reached up to brush the tear away. "Had enough yet?"

"You're not getting the list," Mohinder said, his voice breaking. Sylar laughed.

"Are you masochistic?" he said, then laughed again. "Because you can't be an idiot—just a glimpse of your knowledge and your work is enough to prove _that_—so that must be the only other explanation." He smiled. "Are you enjoying this?"

No response.

"Shall I take that as a yes?" Sylar asked, and when he was greeted with only silence, he laughed. "Then I suppose it is." He touched Mohinder's cheek again, the rough feel of stubble sending tingles up his spine, unraveling warmth within him. "Such a beautiful face," he whispered. "And you're just so _stubborn_. Why not give me the list, end all of it? You prefer scarring yourself, just to protect these people that you don't even know?" He leaned in closer. "And why would you care for strangers so much? Does it make you feel like a _hero_? Is this your way of feeling power, by meddling in the lives of others?" Even closer now. "Such a beautiful face. And they say, you know, that psychological torture leaves deeper scars than physical torture."

He pressed his lips to Mohinder's, savoring their soft feel; Mohinder bit Sylar's lip, leaving it bleeding ever so slightly; Sylar withdrew and slapped Mohinder hard enough to jolt him, but not hard enough to have any sort of lasting impact; the needles of glass fell to the floor with a light, jingling noise like bells or maybe wind chimes; and everything fell silent—save for the sound of Mohinder's heartbeat, which thudded in Sylar's head.

"You don't like it?" Sylar whispered, a smile unfurling across his face. Mohinder turned away; Sylar's smile widened into a grin as he added in a hushed, soft voice—"Then I'll do it again."

He kissed Mohinder again as he unbuttoned Mohinder's shirt; Mohinder thrashed, trying to get away, but Sylar laughed as he caught Mohinder's lips again, his laughs sending the gentle vibrations through him. Without even glancing at him, Sylar traced shallow cuts into the skin of Mohinder's chest; Mohinder gasped and stilled, wincing as every movement caused pain to shoot through him.

"You're enjoying this," Sylar said, tracing his finger around Mohinder's heart.

"No, I'm not," Mohinder gasped, fighting for breath. Sylar's response was to kiss Mohinder harder, prying his lips apart his tongue and sending shocks through Mohinder's body. Sylar's hand ran more smoothly over Mohinder's chest, bathed in his blood, as he continued to draw random cross-cross lines. He deepened the kiss; Mohinder bit Sylar's lip again, but this time, Sylar bit back, then ran his tongue over the droplets of blood that formed.

The sound of Mohinder's quick, erratic heartbeat was deafening, pounding inside his head, and he finally broke away to regain his breath and to clear his mind of that incessant sound. He had to be careful; if he kept this up, he would be likely to get another migraine; he could feel one beginning already. Sylar's breathing had become shallower; mentally cursing himself for letting a weakness slip through, he forced his breathing to still, to even out.

He walked to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, letting the water run over his bloodstained hands. Looking up, he was met with his reflection in the mirror—his cheeks flushed, his lips parted with a dot of blood to one side, beads of sweat running down the side of his face. He frowned as the throbbing in his head strengthened. He shut off the faucet and flicked the water off of his hands as he walked back into the room.

The grisly sight of his handiwork sent another trickle of warmth through him. He smirked as he looked at Mohinder: a dazed expression on his face; chest bare and laced with cuts; blood dripping and pooling onto the ground; lips parted as he murmured something that Sylar could only imagine to be related to the conflicting thoughts in his head.

Sylar put his hands in his pocket. "I've done enough for today," he said, trying to force his shallowing breathing to become regular today. "When I come back tomorrow, Mohinder—which I will—I'll be expecting to see you dying to give me the list."

With that, he left, shutting the door behind him and turning the locks telekinetically. He let out a long breath; the air around him cooled as tiny crystals of ice formed. He felt himself shiver despite his jacket as his breath appeared before him, little puffs of white.

Yet, for some reason, the heat within him still lingered.

* * *

The next morning found Sylar unlocking Mohinder's door from the outside, then stepping in without a sound. He hadn't been worried about the cuts killing Mohinder, or that he'd bleed to death—he'd made sure that they were deep enough to leave a mark, shallow enough to hurt, and not deep enough to kill. He found Mohinder asleep, his head down, his brow furrowed; Sylar could only imagine that he was having a deep, disturbing dream. 

Mohinder's face as he slept, Sylar thought, was—if possible—more beautiful than his face when he was awake. Sylar ran a finger over the parted lips, then kissed Mohinder's eyelids, trailing down until his lips met Mohinder's. Softly, he kissed those lips, one part of him cursing and admonishing himself for enjoying this and simply just _doing_ this. He was here to get the list, not to, God forbid, get _attached_ to this man.

Sylar broke away, reaching out to shake Mohinder awake, but he was surprised to see Mohinder's eyes open and looking back at him.

"The list?" Sylar prompted after a pause in which he collected himself. Mohinder took a deep breath, then winced as a few of the scars across his chest broke open and began to bleed again.

"Answer me one question: You can really—see how it works? Understand it?"

Sylar smiled. "Easily. It's kind of like—picking apart a puzzle. Or, rather, a watch." He grinned. "The first time—oh, it was messy, so messy. I had to take a steak knife and _saw_ his head open until I finally got through the skull, and then it took me another few hours to feel his brain, to _find_ it and then to finally figure out how to take it." He licked his lips. "It got easier after that—much easier—one second, and I'm done."

He smirked at the look of disgust on Mohinder's face. "Well?"

"Under one condition," Mohinder finally said after a long pause. Sylar raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

Mohinder furrowed his brow, began, paused, took a breath, winced, and began again. "You—take me—and help me with my research."

Sylar laughed as he began to untie Mohinder.

"Like father, like son."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Any and all feedback is always welcome! 


End file.
